


My Father

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:12:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington. M, angst, verges on PWP. This story was written before S2 E22, and has therefore now become irretrievably non-canon. But I am ok with that.  Oh yes I am. *sails on happily into the summer*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Story

The old woman is on oxygen, her wrinkled hands folded useless on her shawl draped lap.

Tom is translating, his Russian barely adequate to the task.

Liz stares at the old woman's face as she speaks.

Telling the story Red wouldn't tell her. The one he didn't want her to hear.

The one that slowly emerges from her damaged memory, patchy and almost colorless, as the old woman relates the details.

**

Liz was told not to look up at the burning house, but she did. 

Her father led her safely from the flames, clambering through a ground floor window, then raced back into the inferno. The man he pushed out that window next was still aflame, screaming in a high tone that made her ears hurt, and as she stared in terror at the open window, her hands covering her ears, the fire gave a roar and the roof collapsed, just her father's outstretched hand visible for a moment before it disappeared forever in smoke and flame.

The man rolled over and over again on the ground, still keening, then staggered to his feet.

"Hide," he gasped, his deep voice rough with pain, "Come on, we have to hide," and Liz stood and took his outstretched hand with a strange numbness, following him obediently into the darkness with only one last glance at the fiercely burning ruin that had just become her father's tomb. She was accustomed to running, to hiding. To not thinking about who and what she has to leave behind.

Not thinking feels safe.

**

"That's everything she knows." 

Tom rises, looks around the small room as if taking in the details for the first time.

Faded photographs, shelves of books and phonograph records.

"Why does this place seem familiar?" he asked Liz.

She shrugs.

There's a superficial resemblance to Red's apartment in Bethesda, but she can't imagine Tom was ever invited there.

"She's a Russian immigrant - probably some of Berlin's connections had a similar past?" she ventures.

Tom shakes his head.

The old woman is dozing again when Liz turns from her own scrutiny of the room to thank her.

Liz motions Tom into the hall and gives him a quick hug of thanks. She needs to get back to work before she's missed. He'll be leaving the country in a week. She wonders who he's giving the Mustang to - she already declined the gift. The insurance on a second car would be impossible on her salary.


	2. The Reaction

It's very late when Liz finishes work, a hectic day which prevented her from obsessing over the mental images she's now managed to recover.

Nothing about her mother, not yet.

But the man who led her away from the fire? That was Red.

Her father died to save Red.

No wonder he doesn't want to tell her the truth. It explains why she's special, why he can't ever make up for what she's lost. Why he can't bear to see her in any kind of filth or disgrace.

Liz soaks in the hottest water she can stand, the small ugly motel bathroom rendered palatable by candles burning on every surface and a bottle of wine to refill her clear plastic glass.

For a long time she just lets herself cry, mourning the Red she thought she knew. The one who seemed to be opening himself up to her. Flinching when she was angry.

She thought he was beginning to care for her. For Liz the woman, not the grown-up little girl he saved.

She mourns too for the father she will never know. For his extraordinary courage. Who was Red to him, that her father died to save his life?

The water is all but cold when she finally drains it away and takes a brief, hot shower before toweling herself dry and dressing in warm thermal pajamas and fuzzy bed socks. She could turn up the room heat, but it smells so musty.

Then she blows her nose with determination one last time and climbs into bed, only when she's settled in the dark thinking to reach out and check her phone.

Three missed calls from Nick's Pizza.

Liz hits reply, then lies back against her pillow and closes her swollen eyes, listening to it ring. Allowing just a few more tears to roll silently down her cheeks.

"Lizzie?"

He sounds tired.

Oh god. It's one a.m.

"I missed your calls?"

She didn't mean to sound like that. For a moment, Liz listens to him breathe.

"Lizzie, is something wrong?"

His voice is so rich, so warm. She puts her phone on speaker and places it on the pillow next to her own. If she closes her eyes against the dim blue glow, she can almost imagine he's lying there beside her.

"You called me three times, Red, so I assume it must be important?"

He chuckles.

"Hardly that. A new shipment of Beaujolais was just delivered, and I thought you might enjoy a glass."

"Mmm."

Liz imagines sitting opposite Red in some luxurious safe house, drinking expensive, smooth red wine, not the cheap stuff still sitting by the tub. She barely managed to choke down two glasses.

"Lizzie? Are you in bed? You sound rather ... sleepy."

His low voice drops even lower on the last word. She can't help but wonder if Red is lying in bed as well, probably some huge bed with expensive linens and piles of thick blankets.

"Yes. What about you?"

She wants to hear him say the word 'bed'.

"Actually, I'm in the car."

So much for that fantasy.

"We're parked outside - would you like me to drop off a bottle or two?"

Liz erupts from beneath the covers and rushes to the window. There it is, a dark sedan idling, tinted glass preventing any view of driver or passenger. The door swings open and Red emerges, his face deeply shadowed beneath his fedora beneath the high security lights illuminating the small parking lot. He has a small carrier bag in his right hand, his left hand holding the phone to his ear as he scans his surroundings before advancing towards her door.

Her robe. Where in the mess of her room is her robe?


	3. Some Answers

"My father loved you, didn't he?"

"How could you possibly know that?"

Red pauses, glass halfway to his lips. He's sitting in his usual seat, the mirrored wall reflecting his profile, the tic that comes and goes at the corner of his mouth.

She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, her still damp hair curling around her face. The room smells of smoke from the candles and vanilla bath oil.

Liz takes another sip of her wine, trying to frame the words as a yes or no question. She does better with those; less opportunities for deflection.

"I told you I would find answers to my questions," she responds. "Was it because you served together?"

Red grimaces and shakes his head.

"No, we knew each other long before."

He looks past her to her phone, flashing on the pillow beside her.

"Do you need to get that?"

She turns to look. A text from Tom. 'Boat repairs are complete!!!' He's dealing with a shipyard in a different time zone, halfway around the world.

"No."

Liz turns back rapidly to find Red looking at her a little oddly.

"Did you have me on speaker phone a few minutes ago?" he asks her in a suspicious tone.

She blinks at him, looks around again. Her own pillow, still damp with tears. Her phone cradled on the other pillow.

"Yes?" she answers him. Why would he care?

"I've answered your question, so now, Lizzie, tell me. Why were you crying?"

Red takes a sip of his wine, then holds it between his knees, listening. His big shoulders slumping a little.

"I remembered the moment my father died," she says finally. She swallows hard as his eyes goes distant, almost opaque. His face smoothing into an all but expressionless mask.

"Do you have scars on your back, Red?"

If she thought he looked tired before, that's nothing to the deepening lines on his face as her question registers. Red seems to sag in on himself, his mouth working furiously for a second.

"Yes."

The word is almost a whisper. As if he already knows what she's going to ask next.

Liz extends her palm, meets his eyes before they are drawn, as ever, to her scar. The scar she displayed to him the very first time they met.

"Show me."

He closes his eyes, shakes his head.

"You don't want to ..." he begins.

"I need to know that what I saw is true," she tells him. "That you were the man my father pushed out that window."

She pauses, swallows the last of the wine in her glass.

"That you led me away just as the shooting began."

The sounds of gunfire, the flashes of light. She has no images yet of who was shooting, or why.


	4. Scars

It's a strange, almost surreal experience to sit on her bed and watch Raymond Reddington undress. 

If this were the intimate act it appears to be, she would be helping him, caressing him as the layers come off, one by one.

His overcoat, his jacket, his tightly fitted vest. Each item laid carefully, almost ceremoniously, one atop the next.

Red unbuttons his cuffs, then slowly removes his tie.

He's been facing her throughout the whole process, but now he turns his back, although he surely must be aware that she can see the front side of his body as well, reflected in the mirror that covers the wall at the foot of her bed.

His deft hands make short work of the buttons of his white shirt as he looks down. Away from his reflection.

Liz struggles to her feet, stands with the back of her legs pressed to the foot of the bed, as he lowers his shirt, revealing the upper portion of his fire-scarred back. His shoulders are lightly freckled like the back of his neck, the tiny pale freckles of a true redhead. The moonscape of his scar tissue is paler than her own, smoother, but so much more extensive.

She meets his eyes in the mirror, then her gaze drifts down to the fleshy curves of his chest and belly, feathered with fine hair, lighter above, darkening where it leads her eye to his belt buckle.

"Let me see it all," she whispers, and he turns to remove and lay his shirt aside, the white skin of his sides such a contrast to the ridged and whorled scars of his burns.

No wonder he screamed like that. Liz can't imagine what self-control it must have taken to stay conscious, let alone lead her to safety.

She wants to touch his skin, almost puts out her hand, when his hands go to the buckle of his belt.

The scars disappear beneath the waistline of his suit pants. As she stares, frozen in her tracks, Red lowers the waist of his pants, baring the high, pale curve of his buttocks for just a moment. 

Her mind registers the irregular ridge where the scars stop and his lack of underwear simultaneously.

Then he's pulling up his pants and buckling his belt once again.

"Satisfied, Lizzie?"

She meets his gaze in the mirror once again. Her pupils are so wide her eyes appear black, not blue. They both seem to be holding their breath.

He reaches out for his shirt, stops with his hand outstretched as Liz lays her palms on his bare shoulders.

"No," she whispers. Not sure what she's doing, but unable to stop.


	5. Touch

Red closes his eyes and bends his head, his chin tucked close to his chest, as Liz explores the scars with her fingers.

If the roof hadn't collapsed, would her father have been burned like this?

She can't remember what she touched in the house, what object seared her wrist and hand so deeply.

She still has so many questions.

"Do you know how I burned my hand, Red?" she whispers, her fingers stroking down his sides, lingering at his waist. 

He nods, not opening his eyes. Red seems to be concentrating on her touch, his half-empty wine glass forgotten on the floor. Liz leans down and scoops it up, keeping one hand on his lower back.

She takes a deep drink. So delicious. She's becoming relaxed. The scar tissue is beginning to feel normal by now, her fingers tracing the ridges and curves as if learning any other feature of his body.

She's never touched his face, the dome of his head.

"Tell me," she says.

Red shakes his head. No. Of course his answer is no.

Setting the now-empty wine glass down, Liz steps closer, holding her breath as she slides her fingers a little further, just above the line of his waistband, reaching far past the line of scar tissue to caress the soft flesh of his belly.

"Lizzie." 

His eyes are open now, and he's looking down at her hands in the mirror, his own hands still hanging loosely at his sides. His expensive watch looks as incongruous as his shoes in their reflected images - a woman in a robe, a bed, a man caught in the process of undressing.

"Lizzie, what are you doing?"

If ever there were a question that required no answer.

Liz curls her fingers under to run her nails lightly back and forth, not hard enough to tickle, then smooths her palms up the curve of his belly to where his skin is smooth and hairless, then turns her fingers upwards, feeling his nipples hardening, both of them watching her touch him now without any pretense at conversation.

She's worshiping him with her hands.

"Lizzie?" His voice is impossibly deep now, his chest rising and falling more quickly. Red sways, just a little, and she realizes how aroused he is. 

Her hands slide slowly down, tracing the line of his waist before coming to rest over his belt buckle.

Red looks positively grim, as if he expects her to stop, but his eyes glitter as he watches her, not raising his hands to restrain her.

She unbuckles the belt, runs both hands up and down the front of his wool trousers as he watches. He's larger than she expected, and his intent eyes in their net of fine wrinkles lid briefly as his mouth goes smug.

Liz spends a few more seconds touching him through the fabric as punishment, sliding her fingers to his zipper and then away.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

She's never done anything quite like this. Certainly never been with a man like Red, older, more experienced than she will probably ever be.

Liz strokes him with her nails, meets his steady eyes in the mirror. Holding her gaze, Red allows his face to soften, biting at his lower lip. Showing her how badly he wants her, wants this.


	6. More Touch

She feels for the buttons, then lowers his zipper. Allows his trousers to fall to his ankles.

Red moans, actually moans, just a small low sound deep in his throat, that she can only hear because she's pressed so close against his back, her hands holding him, one moving so cautiously to explore that velvet-smooth skin, the other one lower, even more delicate.

"Lizzie!" 

His hands come to cover hers, and then he's stroking himself, guiding her fingers, both of them staring into the mirror at their joined hands moving on his body. Revealing to her this most private language, the touches he prefers, the speed, the pressure.

His breathing is louder now, and Liz has her mouth open, so it seems perfectly natural to swipe her tongue along the top of his shoulder to his neck, then follow the line of scars across the top of his back to the other shoulder.

Red shudders, enfolds the fingers of her right hand around him with both hands, his body shaking as he tries to regain control.

Watching his reactions in the mirror, Liz runs her tongue up his neck once more, this time to his ear. Clings to his hip with her left hand for a moment, then runs her right hand up to his chest once more.

He's so close, his legs planted as wide as the crumpled fabric of the trousers confining his ankles will allow.

She's been so silent.

"Red," Liz murmurs into his ear. "Red, Red," in rhythm with his increasing desperate gasps, alternating licks and small bites at his neck, until he goes almost still, rising up a little on his toes. Giving himself fully to this moment as she watches, her hands and mouth stilling as he comes completely undone, his head falling back to rest briefly on her shoulder.

"Oh, Lizzie." 

She's never heard such approval, gratitude, reverence from him. Not ever. His tone engenders a boundless tenderness in her. 

Red leans back against her, his eyes closed, and she wraps her arms around him, then kisses the top of his shoulder one last time. So many tiny freckles. Liz wants to kiss them all, count them, learn them like the constellations of the night sky.

Neither of them is looking in the mirror any more, Red just standing so still, allowing her to hold him.

Finally, he shifts his weight a little from one foot to the other, and Liz reluctantly releases him.

Red pulls up his pants, buttons the top button, then heads for her bathroom. He's still wearing shoes.

Liz looks down at her own feet. Thick, light blue fuzzy bed socks, one of them inside out. She feels as if the earth has shifted. Who are they to each other, now? Will it change what he's willing to tell her?

Will he want to leave, pretend nothing has happened?


	7. After

The water starts running. He's taking a shower. 

Liz looks at the pile of his clothing, then swiftly rummages through all his jacket pockets. The handkerchief in his breast pocket, the lighter, the bone-handled knife, worn smooth with use, she expects. He also has breath mints, lock picks, and a tiny silver pill bottle containing a variety of foreign generics.

He's not carrying a wallet in his jacket, but there's $5,000 in cash in an envelope in one inner pocket, a roughly minted gold coin with a curious symbol in another.

Liz is sitting cross-legged on the bed, sipping a little more wine, although at this point she'd really prefer water, when Red emerges from her bathroom, carrying his shoes and socks, a towel draped over his shoulders.

"Red?"

"Yes, Lizzie?"

He pauses, lifts the towel to wipe his face, then blinks at her.

"Will you stay?"

The words come out a little fast, but at least she managed to ask.

He blinks at her again.

"Is there something else you need?" he responds a little dryly, tilting his head and crooking one eyebrow at her. Liz feels herself blushing, the heat moving down her neck and spreading beneath the concealing layers of her robe and pajamas. Take Red's place in front of the mirror?

The thought is such a mixture of horrifying and arousing she literally can't come up with any words for a moment.

"No?" He gives her a shrug, then drops his shoes on the floor and turns to reach for his clothing.

Liz takes a quick gulp and finishes the last of her wine. 

"No, I meant, stay the night."

Red has one arm in the sleeve of his shirt when her words register. He turns, stares at her in apparent shock.

"I know you think this is a dreadful place..." she begins.

Red drops the shirt back on the pile, not even flinching as it slithers onto the floor.

"Yes, if you want me to."

He looks so serious all at once, but his tone is unexpectedly neutral. As if he's trying to give her space to change her mind.

"Shall I call Dembe?" she asks him, reaching for her phone.

Red blinks, then nods. 

"He'll need to be back here by six," he says, removing his trousers and folding them neatly atop the pile of clothing, then retrieving his shirt from the floor and draping it over the top of them.

Liz stands and sets the wine glass down, makes the brief call and then shrugs out of her robe. Allowing Red to climb into bed and make himself comfortable before she shuts off the light.

At the edge of the bed Liz reaches down and removes her bed socks.

The room is dim now, only a few cracks of light filtering through a gap in the curtains, but she can see Red's profile, his head squarely in the center of his pillow as he lies on his back, covers up to his neck.

All of a sudden she's afraid, afraid to remove her pajamas, afraid of what she's done.

It's one thing to want a man, yearn for him. A powerful, dangerous, fascinating man, who withholds secrets and engages her in a dance where only he knows the next steps.

It's another to invite the concierge of crime into your bed, into your heart. 

"Lizzie?"

His deep voice, so gentle. The knot in her stomach loosens. Why did she drink so much wine?

Liz climbs into bed in her pajamas, scoots close to Red. He puts his arm out and tucks her against his bare chest. He smells like her vanilla bath oil rather than his usual masculine scent.

"I don't sleep well, most nights," he says softly. "So just go ahead and sleep."

Pressed as close as possible, Liz pets him gently as he speaks, the clean, soft fluff of his body hair such a pleasing texture. She's already so warm, and she feels so safe.

"Red?" she says, listening to his heart beat. Thinking about the night of the fire, her father's kiss on her head before he ran back into the house to rescue Red.

"Yes, Lizzie?"

"You loved my father too, didn't you?'

His heart hammers for a moment, then slows, as his arms tighten around her.

"I did." The words are so clipped, but he's still holding her tightly against him.

"I wish he were here, to see us happy," she murmurs, rubbing her face sleepily against Red's chest.

His arms loosen briefly, then tighten again.

"Go to sleep, Lizzie," Red whispers. "We can talk about this in the morning."

She presses kisses against his chest as she drifts off to sleep.


End file.
